Deluge
by Serialgal
Summary: Upon Charlie's return from England, Don and Charlie are in an accident on a dark, rain-slicked road.
1. Chapter 1

**Deluge**

Synopsis: Set after the ends of season six, shortly after Charlie returns from England. Don and Charlie are in accident on a remote rain-slicked road. The story revolves around Don and Charlie, but it is written entirely from Don's POV.

A/N: This plot bunny has been after me for a while now, and it's a relatively short story, so I decided to end its pestering before I did anything else. I started writing it toward the end of season six, before we received the news of Numb3rs' cancellation, with the idea that it would fit in with the start of a season seven. Regrettably, there will be no season seven, except in our imaginations, but here on the page at least, our beloved Numb3rs characters can live on. The story is ten chapters, some short, some longer (the breaks in this piece are purposely placed to coincide with Don's perceptions) and I will try to post every other day, or every three days until it is complete.

Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of the characters, although I do claim rights to the story concept.

...

**Chapter 1**

Don Eppes sat in his SUV, peering out the driver's door window through sheets of pouring rain. Due to the darkness – not to mention the sheet of water on his window – it was hard to see, but he spotted the slight form silhouetted in the entranceway of the country club's grand pavilion. He suspected it might be Charlie, although his view was further obscured by the suit jacket collar the figure had pulled over its head – but when his brother dashed down the marble steps, he knew. It had been over six months since he'd seen that loping gait, but he'd know it anywhere. He grinned as Charlie dashed past the front of the SUV and wrenched open the passenger side door, let his jacket fall back on his shoulders and nearly leapt inside, breathlessly, and grinning from ear to ear. He wiped the water from his face and shook his dark curls. "Wow," he said unnecessarily, "it's pouring out there."

"Just a little," conceded Don, grinning back at him. "Welcome back."

"Thanks."

"Sorry to drag you out of there like this. What about Amita?" Don put the SUV into gear and pulled out slowly from the entrance. Glenmark Country Club was posh, brand new, and on a just as new golf course, out in the middle of nowhere. Away from the lighted entrance of the pavilion, it was pitch black, and the rain made it nearly impossible to see the road. Don kept his speed down as he maneuvered around the edge of the parking lot.

"That's okay, it was almost over, and it was pretty stuffy, anyway. We took Amita's car, so she can drive home, and Larry will ride back with her."

"Cal Sci made you go to that thing? You were barely off the plane from London."

Charlie sighed. "Yeah. We just had time to get home, drop our luggage off, and change. It's a big event for Cal Sci, though – they only hold it once a year and it's a chance for them to lobby for funds from the Los Angeles area and local community leaders. They wanted to show me and Amita off, I guess, with us just fresh from our assignments at Cambridge. It was hard to turn them down – but I have to admit, I'm sure glad to be out of there." He smiled at Don. "So, how are the wedding plans coming?"

Don grinned sheepishly, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh, okay, I guess. Robin and I are still trying to set a date. I can see what you guys went through – and we don't have an optimization program to help us out."

Charlie shrugged. "It'll fall into place. It did for us."

Don sent him a sly sideways glance. "And what about you? Dad's dying to know if there are any grandkids on the way."

He could sense Charlie's flush, even in the darkness. "Uh – um, well - Amita wants to make sure we time it, um -," He broke off abruptly, as if aware he'd already said too much, and cleared his throat, hastily changing the subject. "So, what's this case you're on? Dad says you've been living at the office."

"Yeah – it's a tough one, and we're running out of time. I never would have pulled you out on it if we weren't desperate. I gotta tell you, buddy, I'm glad you're here – we sure can use the help. We've been working this for 54 hours straight." Don swung his SUV out of the country club gate, and peered through the windshield as he turned onto the two-lane road that led back to the city outskirts. It would be twenty miles of pitch-blackness in the rain, but at least it was relatively straight road. It was good thing; although he'd caught a few naps here and there over the past two days, he was tired. As he drove, he began to fill Charlie in on the case – a weapons smuggling operation. Based on work they had done so far, they suspected that a large shipment of illegal automatic weapons was going to ship out of the area soon, and they needed to find it – or identify the smugglers - before the shipment left the area.

He did feel a little guilty about dragging Charlie out late at night, after he had just arrived in town from six months overseas, but he had to admit, he was enjoying this, too. He'd missed his younger brother, and putting their heads together on a case felt good. No, more than good. He'd worried a bit about them growing apart during Charlie's absence, but now that Charlie was here with him, he knew his concerns had been groundless. He felt closer to his brother than he ever had as he glanced across the dark cab and caught Charlie's smile, and the glint of affection and enthusiasm in his dark eyes. Charlie was glad to see him too, excited to be working a case again together; it was obvious. They exchanged a grin that spoke volumes, as Charlie began talking. He had a habit of thinking out loud – talking through mathematical theory as it applied to the case. Don suspected that the process of explaining it to a layman actually helped Charlie solidify the facts in his own mind. So he let him talk, as they sped down the dark wet road.

The road ran through a few acres of orchard, and then through a relatively rural area. On Don's trip in to the country club the rain had let up for a stretch, and he had seen an occasional house on one side of the road. On the other side, there was a deep drainage canal, the width and depth of a small river. In the city, such a culvert would be lined with concrete, but out here, it was simply filled with rock, the large boulders unearthed from the process of digging. Ordinarily, it would be nearly dry – perhaps a trickle of water creeping through the rocks. The ditch was built to shunt off water from the nearby hills for storms such as this, however, and Don knew that tonight, it would be at least half-full – the trickle burgeoning into a fast, swollen stream. In fact, as they came up on a house, Don got another the look. The owner of the house had installed a bright mercury light on a post for security reasons, and in the light Don caught a quick glimpse of the canal on the other side of the road. The stream was now more than swollen; it was a raging muddy torrent cascading over the rocks and apparently was continuing to rise. It was still below the banks, however, and Don put it out of his mind as he focused on what Charlie was saying.

"So you're saying it will take you two steps, then?"

Charlie nodded. "At least. We can bounce one search off the other. One algorithm will factor in possible locations for the shipment. We'll use that information to narrow our search for people involved in the smuggling operations. Then we can further narrow the list of suspects by other means – motive, opportunity. Then we'll take that new list and bounce it back off the possible locations, narrowing those even further. It's an iterative process. We should be able to get your list of locations and/or suspects down to a manageable number."

Don could picture the process in his mind, and the anticipation of starting it made him press harder on the gas. He glanced at the clock – ten minutes after eight. They were a good twenty or thirty minutes away from the office. Charlie looked at him, still grinning, and shook his head. "Slow down there, ace. You're hydroplaning."

"Am not," retorted Don, with an answering grin. In spite of his denial, he had felt it too, the slightest hint that the vehicle had started to fishtail, but it had disappeared as quickly as it came. Even so, he began to lift his foot from the gas – better to be conservative, as his reaction time was likely to be slowed by fatigue. "You just spent the last several months driving on the wrong side of the road," he teased. "Don't tell me how to drive -," He was about to add, "– and buckle your seat belt;" but he never got the chance.

The words stopped abruptly in his throat as the sickening sense of G-forces pressed on his body. The SUV was sliding, slipping sideways. He immediately worked the wheel, frantically steering into the slide as the vehicle turned, and caught a quick glimpse of Charlie's face, white in the darkness, his eyes wide. Then there was a lurch and a bone-jarring jolt, and the world turned upside down. Don had a brief sensation of weightlessness, then of his body pressing hard against his seat and shoulder belt. The last thing he remembered was a loud crunching sound, and a sharp blow to the left side of his head.

...

End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Deluge**

**Chapter 2**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer._

_A/N: Thanks to all for the alerts and reviews. In response to one of them - no, I have no intention of ceasing to write Numb3rs stories, just because the show has been cancelled; in fact, we'll need to lean on fanfic more than ever now. I have had a very busy last several months, so it has slowed me down, but I should be finding some more time to write in the coming weeks. _

...

Don woke to a roaring in his ears, and a head that felt as though it was going to explode. It felt odd when he turned it, and then he realized that was because he was hanging upside-down from the vehicle's safety belt. The roaring wasn't in his ears, he found as he turned his head. The passenger side door was open, and the vehicle was lying on its roof at the edge of the drainage culvert. What he heard was a combination of the noise from the water and the sound of the SUV engine, which was still running. Don reached for his keys and turned it off, then automatically punched the button for the flashers, as he looked again to his right, trying to get his bearings from his inverted position. Through the open door, he could see that the water was only a yard or two away, and the sight of the raging torrent alone would have made his heart lurch, even if he hadn't realized at the same moment that his brother was gone.

"Charlie?" The name ripped from his throat, and he fumbled frantically with the belt, putting one forearm against the roof to ease his fall as he released the latch. Roof became floor as he came out of his upside-down seat, and he twisted in the confined space to get on his stomach. A pull on the driver's side door handle was fruitless; it wouldn't budge. He fleetingly wondered why the air bags didn't deploy, and mentally answered his own question as he combat-crawled across the roof toward the open passenger door – the accident was a rollover, not a front-end collision – airbags didn't necessary go off in that situation. He had gotten a glimpse of the dashboard clock when he had turned off the engine; it was twenty-five after eight. He'd been unconscious for only for a few minutes. Other than a knock on the head and some bruised shins, he seemed to be in one piece, himself. The thoughts were random, fast-paced, skidding around in his mind like frenzied rats, barely acknowledged in the face of nearly nauseating panic, as he pulled himself out of the door opening. Where was Charlie?

Once outside and on his feet, he found his brother nearly immediately; and first sagged with relief that he was there, and not thrown into the roiling water. That relief was followed by another sharp surge of fear as he took in the situation. Charlie was on his back, lying right next to the vehicle on the large rocks that formed the edge of the culvert, his eyes closed, oblivious to the pelting rain. As Don scrambled to kneel near him; however, he realized that Charlie wasn't simply next to the vehicle; his left leg was _under_ it – pinned between the back edge of the SUV roof and some boulders. The taillight on that corner of the vehicle had been smashed by the collision and was buried in the rocks, but the other one was working, the flasher blinking red, lending a garish pulsing light to the scene. "Shit," Don breathed. He felt with shaking hands for a pulse, and as he did, Charlie stirred and moaned.

It was difficult to see Charlie's features in the darkness and pouring rain, but in the brief bursts of light from the flasher, Don could tell he was wincing, trying to shut his eyes against the stinging drops. Don rested his hand lightly on Charlie's chest and he could feel it start to heave, as Charlie regained consciousness and pain and shock began to make themselves felt. The roar of the water and the rain were so loud that Don had to yell in order to be heard. "Charlie, buddy, can you hear me? Hang on; I'm going to try to pull you out of there."

Ordinarily he wouldn't have tried to move him; he would have waited for an ambulance crew, but the nearby rush of water was rising; he could feel some of the larger splashes landing on the backs of his legs. He clambered over the rocks to Charlie's head, awkwardly straddling a boulder as he leaned down and put his hands under his brother's shoulders, and pulled, carefully. Charlie immediately went rigid, and a strangled cry of pain, muffled by the roar of the water, escaped him. "I'm sorry, buddy," yelled Don, "I know this hurts, hang on-," and he pulled again, harder.

That generated a scream, but no movement other than writhing – Charlie was securely pinned. Panic was flaring in earnest now, and Don scrambled back over the rock to Charlie's side and leaned over him. He put his shoulder against a portion of the vehicle just above Charlie's trapped leg and pushed as hard as he could, first steadily, then in rhythmic bursts, trying to rock the vehicle. It didn't move. They were not at the top of the bank, he realized, they had actually skidded a few yards or so down it toward the water, and the SUV's front was toward the top of the incline. The heavy engine compartment was pointed skyward and was weighing on the rest of the vehicle, including the rear, which was pinning Charlie. It would be impossible to move without significant force; mere manpower alone would have no effect. They needed a tow-truck, and they needed it now.

Don shot a fearful eye behind him at the water. Charlie was facing slightly downstream, and thankfully, his head was a bit higher than his feet – his head's elevated position would buy them a few more minutes. Don bent over and put his face next to Charlie's, and yelled, "Buddy, I'll be right back. I'm going up to the road – I'm going to call for help and see if I can stop someone to help us get you out!" He was near enough to get an impression of Charlie's dark eyes and the expression on his face; oddly blank, dull with shock. Still dazed, no doubt, perhaps in too much pain to comprehend his position. Charlie nodded faintly and closed his eyes, and Don scrambled up the boulders to the top of the culvert, where he found himself on the side of the road.

A quick glance either way revealed only blackness – no house lights, no headlights materializing out of the pouring rain. The only light was the blinking of the SUV headlights behind him, activated by the flasher button, twin intermittent beams pointed skyward, illuminating the sheets of rain. Don pulled out his cell phone, covering it with one hand to keep it dry, and breathed a prayer of thanks as the screen glowed to life – it was still working. He hit speed dial for Colby Granger, and uttered another silent prayer as the agent answered. "Colby! Listen –," he yelled into the receiver, to make sure Colby could hear him over the pouring rain. "I need you to listen. Charlie and I have had an accident on Glen Road, just a few miles toward town from Glenmark Country Club. We need a tow truck and an ambulance as quickly as possible. Charlie's pinned under the SUV on the edge of the drainage culvert, and the water's coming up fast." He paused, barely making out Colby's terse acknowledgement. "Colby – please, hurry. I'm talking _minutes_, here."

He caught Colby's affirmative and snapped the phone shut, tucking it carefully in his pocket as he turned, and stood still, staring. There beside the road was a sign, illuminated in the flashing headlights – a yellow caution sign marked with a black silhouette of a car and an S-shaped road. _Slippery when wet_. It seemed to be mocking him, and Don stared at it miserably for a moment, before making his way back down the rocks. Now that the brief flurry of activity was over, it was beginning to sink in that there wasn't much more he could do besides wait – and cold, desperate fear was starting to assert itself. He'd done all he could – but if help didn't get here in time, it wouldn't be good enough. The thought made him hurry his movements, and he almost slipped on the rocks as he reached Charlie. '_Slow down_,' he told himself. '_If you fall and knock yourself out, you'll be no good to him at all._'

He carefully stepped down past Charlie's head and got to his side again, noting with despair that the water was now lapping at the boulders just a foot below them. The roadway and the culvert ran fairly straight, but there was a slight bend in the channel just above them, and it blocked some of the force of the water. Still, after the stream cleared that point, it swirled in toward them, and then out away again, rapidly. Don stared at it, watching the motion, and then looked at the vehicle. If the water got high enough, it might actually start to pull on the SUV; maybe the back end would even float. If the vehicle moved enough, he might be able to pull Charlie out – the only question was whether Charlie would be completely submerged himself by then. He moved closer and hunched over him, trying to block the rain that was pelting them, mercilessly. Charlie opened his eyes briefly, then closed them again. He was shaking, Don realized, and he pushed closer, half crouching, half sitting on the rocks next to him, trying to shelter him as much as he could. He reached for Charlie's hand, and Charlie gripped his tightly. "Hang in there, buddy," Don yelled. "I called for help – it's on the way." Charlie nodded faintly, then his eyelids fluttered open, and although he didn't say a word, Don was close enough to make out the pain and fear in his eyes. He sat there, holding his brother's hand, feeling the cold splash of the rising water on his feet.

...

End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Deluge**

**Chapter 3**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer._

_A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews and alerts. Don's head injury is causing memory lapses, and his thoughts to be disjointed..._

...

Five minutes later, Don was frantic. The water was rising quickly, and the current was pulling at his feet. Charlie's feet were submerged, too, along with a bit of the SUV, but it wasn't to the floating point yet, and Don realized now that it wouldn't be, not until well after the water had closed over Charlie's head. There was no sign of help yet, and Don knew that even when a tow truck got there, it would take them some time to hook up and pull out the SUV – time that Charlie didn't have. It occurred to him, as he looked down at his brother's face, that in just moments it would be gone from his sight, and he could tell by the glimpses that he got of Charlie's expression in the flashing red of the taillights, that he realized it, too. The thought made Don's heart contract painfully; he had a sense that he was drowning himself - he couldn't breathe. The water was tugging at him, and he struggled for composure and shifted impatiently higher, moving to a rock next to Charlie's head but not breaking eye contact, not willing to lose a moment. Charlie kept his dark eyes locked on his, as if their shared gaze was a lifeline, his last tether to the world, to the remaining moments of his life.

It was at that moment that Don heard the voice. His head jerked up. Crouching on the rocks above them was a boy of about eleven or twelve. He was skinny, with dark eyes, a nose too big for his face, and longish wavy dark hair plastered to his head, wearing only drenched jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt with an abstract form on it, which was partially illuminated by the flashing taillight, but unrecognizable in the dark. He seemed oddly unruffled by the situation and the downpour, regarding them with an almost eerie calm. Don was stunned into silence, just blinking at him in the rain, and the boy called, "There's a hose, up by the house. If the water gets too high, you can put one end in his mouth and carry the other end of it up the bank, so he can breathe until help gets here."

Don just stared at him for a moment. Something wasn't right, the boy seemed too composed, and besides, Don didn't remember seeing a house when he was up on the road. The boy cocked his head. "Come on," he yelled, over the roar of the water, "you don't have much time." Then he turned and clambered up the rocky slope.

Don stared after him, open-mouthed, and then looked down at Charlie. "I'll be right back, Charlie – I have an idea." Charlie's dark eyes widened in protest, and his hand tightened on Don's. Don squeezed. "I'll be back, I promise," he yelled, pulled his hand away regretfully, and scrambled as fast as he could up the rocks.

At the top, he paused, and looked around. The boy was nowhere to be seen and the road was still empty, the only light the flashing headlights of the SUV. Don shook his head skeptically - and slowly, because it was still throbbing - but he started forward across the road, and sure enough, as he got to the other side, he could make out the outline of a modest clapboard house in the pouring rain. There were no lights in the windows; the owners didn't appear to be home, but Don ignored the pain in his head and his bruised shins, and sprinted across the front yard and bolted up the wooden steps, pounding on the front door, anyway. If anyone was inside, maybe they could help him try to move the SUV…

There was still no answer, and Don, cursing himself for leaving Charlie, turned and was about to leap back down the steps, when a light came on in the small window next to the door, followed by the glow of a porch light. There was a mail slot in the door, and it opened, and Don bent down toward it, and called, "Hello – there's been an accident, and my brother is trapped – is there anyone there that can help?"

He nearly had to put his ear to the slot to hear the response. The answering voice was female, frail, and weakened by age. "No – I'm sorry, I can't open the door for you, but I can call 911."

Don's heart sank; the occupant was an old woman, alone – no help there. Calling 911 was redundant; Colby had already taken care of that, but Don said, "Yes, please – thank you." There was no harm in trying again, and the woman would be able to give the rescuers a specific address. The slot closed; he realized suddenly that he was just standing there, and he turned and leapt back down the steps, about to head back to Charlie, when a dark object by his feet caught his eye. It was a coiled garden hose, just as the boy had said, attached to a spigot near the steps. Don glanced up at the door, just briefly – it would take too long to ask the old woman if he could use it, and he'd probably just scare her to death if he knocked again - besides, there was no time. He reached down and hurriedly unscrewed it, hooked his arm through the coils and stood, nearly jumping out of his skin.

The boy stood in front of him, regarding him solemnly, rain running in rivulets from his hair. He pointed to the end of the porch, toward the railing. "There's a telescoping dog leash, too, hooked to the rail," he said. "You should hook it to the sign across the road and tie it around your waist. If the water starts to come up, you can hold on to him, and the rope will keep you from being pulled out into the current. It's really long – the leash will play out for yards if you push the release button. Oh – and you should leave your cell phone under a rock next to the road – that way, if you get submerged, it won't get ruined. I think they can track the signal from cell phones – maybe it will help them find you faster."

Don shot a glance at him, wondering how a twelve-year old had come to be so well informed, as he hurried to unhook the dog leash. "Do you live here? Did you call 911?" he asked, as he looked down at the leash to unhook it. There was no response, and when Don looked back over his shoulder again, the boy had vanished. He glanced quickly around, but the boy had disappeared into the gloom, and Don had no time to go find him. The boy's knowledge of the hose and the leash meant he had to live at the house, or somewhere near, he thought to himself, as he sprinted back across the yard, and then across the road. Maybe he worked for the woman…

He reached the side of culvert, and he had half a mind to go straight to Charlie, but he stopped himself at the road sign. He had to admit, the kid had some good ideas – he was pretty bright; kind of reminded him of Charlie, when he was a kid. He glanced at his cell phone. It had only been ten minutes since he'd made the call to Colby, but it seemed a lifetime. He laid the phone under the overhang of a boulder at the road's edge to keep it as dry as possible, laid his service weapon next to it, and tied the handle end of the leash around his waist with a loose knot so the cord could run through it. He hooked the collar end around the base of the sign, and then pushed the button in the handle, letting the sturdy cord play out as he clambered back down the rocks with the hose.

His heart lurched as he got around the end of the vehicle. The rain had tapered off slightly, but the water in the culvert had risen dramatically; it swirled around Charlie's chest; only his head and shoulders were exposed now. In the flashing red glow from the taillight, Don could see that Charlie's eyes were closed, but they opened as Don crouched next to him. They were dull-looking, dark with despair, and Charlie's lips looked dark against the white of his skin – turning blue, no doubt. His body temperature was dropping from shock, and from the cool water. Don dropped into the knee-depth water beside him, bracing himself against the current. It wasn't too strong at this level, thanks to the bank that jutted out just upstream, but if the water got any higher it would be a relentless force – Don could feel the pull as it swirled around his legs. He worked one arm under Charlie's head and propped his head higher, trying to keep it up, out of the water. "It's okay, buddy; I'm back – I won't leave again," he called out, his voice cracking as he caught the desperate, grateful look on his brother's face. Don shrugged his other shoulder, indicating the hose that was looped around it. "I brought a hose – if the water gets too high before they get here, we can put an end in your mouth, so you can breathe, okay?"

Charlie's eyes flickered at that, and Don read just a glimmer of renewed hope in them. His brother nodded, and Don gripped his shoulder firmly. It was now probably eleven or twelve minutes since his call. Granted, they were a good way out in the country and the weather was horrible, but their rescuers had to be coming soon…

...

Charlie coughed, and Don started, shocked to find the water up to his hips, lapping at Charlie's neck. A stronger surge had washed up over his brother's chin, and he had choked. He shifted his grip on Charlie, pulling him up a little higher on the rocks. Don thought to himself that he must have drifted off, blanked out for a moment or two and lost some time – either that, or the water was rising even faster than he'd thought. He pulled again on Charlie's submerged shoulders, trying to get his head above water, but Charlie was already as high up as he could go. God, where was the rescue team? What was taking them so long?

"You need to put the hose in his mouth now."

Don's head shot up – the boy was back, crouching on the rocks above them. They stared at each other for a moment, then Don heard Charlie's voice, and he bent his head to catch the words, muffled by the roar of the current.

Charlie was looking up at him with a deep sadness, mingled with fear and resignation, his pale face framed by the dark water. "Tell Dad I love him, and especially Amita-," he broke off, a sob catching in his throat. "Tell her I'm sorry and I love her." He stopped, and looked intently, sadly into Don's eyes. "I love you, too."

The last words were too low to be heard over the rush of the water, but Don could read his expression and the words on his lips. "Charlie," he said urgently, "you can't give up." He slipped his hands out from under Charlie, fighting down the panic that flared in him as he saw Charlie sag just a little deeper into the water. Don reached for the hose coiled around his shoulder and held up an end. "Put this in your mouth; hold it to your face with both hands, tight, no matter what happens." He guided the hose toward Charlie's mouth, and Charlie reached up with shaking hands, cold and stiff from the water, and placed it in his mouth, clamping his lips over the end. Don guided his hands so that they were cupped over his face, the thumbs holding the hose in place, and his fingers on either side of his nose, so he could pinch it off from the water. Don slipped the hose from his shoulder, holding it loosely to make sure air could flow through it. "Breathe. Can you breathe through it?"

Charlie nodded, and just then, the water closed over his ears. He wouldn't be able to hear, now. The current was tugging at Don, and he eased a little higher on the rocks. He would have to leave Charlie in a moment, he realized; he needed to carry the other end of the hose up the bank – he couldn't let it be submerged by the water, or Charlie wouldn't be able to get air. He cursed himself for not thinking of that sooner. If he had left the other end up on the bank, he could stay with Charlie just a little longer. He turned and looked for the boy – maybe he could carry it…

He was gone again. Don looked back down, into Charlie's eyes, as the water began to close over his face. His eyes were huge, dark as the water rising over him, and fixed on Don, as if drinking in a last sight of someone he loved. "Don't give up," Don said, mouthing the words with exaggerated lip movements, knowing that Charlie couldn't hear him. The water closed over Charlie's head, and Don squeezed his shoulder, and with tears running down his face, let go and carefully crept a foot or two higher on the rocks, out of the strengthening current, still holding his brother's lifeline.

...

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Deluge**

**Chapter 4**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer._

_A/N: Many, many thanks. Here's 4..._

**…**

Don scrambled over the rocks, carefully feeding out hose as he went, making sure it had no kinks that would block Charlie's airflow. He had only made it halfway up the side of the culvert when his ears picked out two distinct noises over the roar of the water. One was the wail of a siren, and the other was the groan and creak of metal under stress. His head whipped around and he stared at the SUV, which was now partly submerged – was it moving? At the same moment, flashing red lights materialized above him on the road, followed by the sound of shouts and slamming vehicle doors. Heads appeared above the rim of rocks, silhouetted by the lights of the emergency vehicles. "Down here!" Don screamed. "He's under water – we need to move the vehicle!"

He took the time to lay down the hose, quickly but carefully, then lurched over the boulders back toward the side of the SUV, half-clambering, half-leaping over the tumble of rocks, heedless of barked shins. He was aware of movement above him, other rescuers starting down the bank, but he had eyes only for the SUV. It was moving – it was now in enough water that it was starting to float, and his heart thudded in his chest with the sudden knowledge that he had to get back down to Charlie, to pull him out and away from the vehicle – he must be free now. He had just come to that conclusion when there was a loud scraping sound; the grind of metal and glass on stone.

"It's going, watch out!" yelled one of the men behind him, and Don stopped short and stared in shock as the big vehicle pulled away and swung out in the current, and was rapidly caught up in the rush of water in the main channel. He began to scramble back down to the water's edge toward Charlie's position, only to see the hose slithering across the rocks. It was being pulled into the current, which meant only one thing – that Charlie was being sucked out into the stream also, along with the hose, and the SUV.

As he stumbled toward the edge of the water, he saw his brother's head break the surface, moving quickly behind the vehicle out into the stream, a darker blob against the murky water. It meant that Charlie was still breathing, still conscious enough to keep his head above water, but he was being pulled out rapidly into the current. The SUV, although it was slowly starting to sink, was also beginning to pick up speed now that it was in the center of the channel, and Don felt a sudden surge of panic as the dark head was swept out behind it. For a moment, the small darker object hung there; moving quickly in the current, then without warning, Charlie disappeared from view.

"Charlie!" Someone was screaming Charlie's name, and Don realized abruptly that it was him. He came out of his shocked state with a jolt and a sense of clarity that propelled him, leaping and slipping, up the boulders to the edge of the road, rasping at the two men who had started down the slope, "He was swept out in the current – we need to get downstream!"

He reached the top and impatiently unhooked the leash from the sign, leaving it around his waist. He hit the button to retract the excess cord, which went into the handle with a hiss, and without waiting for anyone else, sprinted down the road as fast as he could go. He could see the dim form of the SUV in the water as he gained ground; it was now half-submerged, and was hitting rocks on the way, which was impeding its progress. His stomach clenched in sickening fear – was Charlie being battered against those same rocks? As he pulled even with the van, he slowed to a jog, keeping pace with the vehicle, his eyes scanning the black water. The rain had slacked off just a bit, but it still was nearly impossible to tell what he was seeing; every dark swell, every bit of rock could be Charlie's head, or arm…

Three rescue workers had caught up to him, and Don glanced back over his shoulder at them for the first time. They were from a local fire department; he could see the emblem on their brimmed hats. "He got pulled out behind the SUV," Don said, breathlessly, and hitting the leash button again, yanked out some cord and shoved the free end at one of the men. "Hold onto this – if I see him, I'm going in after him. You'll need to pull us out."

The man started to shake his head, but he was cut off by a second man, who jabbed a finger at the swirling water. "There! There he is!"

Don snapped his head back around. Even with the man indicating where he should look, it was hard to make out what the man was pointing to – and then Don saw it. Charlie had been washed up on an outcropping of rocks in the middle of the stream. His dark suit jacket had been torn from his body, and Don could make out the white of his dress shirt. It was impossible to tell if he was holding onto the rocks consciously or not, and Don wasn't waiting to find out. He darted toward the canal. The bank was steeper here, and there was a section of guard rail along the road. Don swung his leg over it and began scrambling down the rocky bank, hitting the release button on the leash to play out more line. He felt the tension on it increase, and a quick glance backward showed that the men had wrapped the other end around the post for the guard rail and two of them were holding the free end, as a third man started over the guard rail, following Don. Ordinarily, Don knew, they would not have allowed him to go in – they would have taken over the rescue operation, but Don's status as an agent and the urgency of the situation – not to mention the fact that he had acted before they could argue, had overruled protocol. Of course, the fact that he was secured with the cord was a factor, too. The only question was the length and strength of the leash – would it be long enough to allow him to reach Charlie – and would it hold their weight?

As he got to the water's edge, Don assessed Charlie's position, at roughly two thirds of the way across the channel. His brother appeared to be half-lying on an outcropping of rocks, head down and arms outstretched, his lower body under water – either unconscious and pinned there by the current, or holding on desperately – Don couldn't tell which, in the darkness. Charlie was slightly downstream from him, but not far enough; Don knew that the minute he entered the water, the current would sweep him downward faster than he could swim out to the rocks, so he fought down his impatience and made his way farther up the bank, clambering over the rocks, playing out more line. When he got to where he hoped was far enough he looked downstream at Charlie one more time, gauging his location, and waded out into the roiling water.

The current immediately took him, and he didn't fight it, instead diving forward. The water was colder than he'd realized, even though he had been wading in it and was already soaking wet, and the sheer force of the current nearly took his breath away. He fought to keep his head up and swam as hard as he could for the opposite shore; the current would take care of moving him downstream. Now that he was in the water, he was starting to question his decision; if he could barely keep his own head up, how on earth would he be able to help Charlie?

The current moved him closer, but he was afraid he'd misjudged; it appeared that he would sweep right by Charlie's position. At the last minute, however, the water changed direction, and swung him hard toward the grouping of rocks. He ended up plastered against his brother's body, held in place by the current. "Charlie!" he yelled, over the noise of the water. No response. He shifted slightly so that he could see Charlie's face, which was turned sideways, and could see that he was unconscious – or worse. He didn't stop to entertain that last possibility, his mind instead frantically going over options to get them off of that rock.

He needed to secure Charlie to him, he realized; he'd never be able to keep a grip on him in that current. He didn't dare unhook the leash from his waist – if he lost the end of it, they'd both be done. He closed his eyes for a moment in frustration, willing his mind to stop spinning, and he could almost hear the calm, soothing voice of the boy he'd encountered on the bank. '_Unbuckle your belt…_'

Of course. Don plunged one hand into the water, forcing it down through the current, and unhooked his belt and then ran it through the back of Charlie's belt. That was no easy task – the current had pushed them together with such force, he had a hard time maneuvering, but somehow he managed to thread his belt through Charlie's and hook it together again. Now they were joined together, in case he lost his grip – it was time to push off.

He craned his neck, trying to see the men on the bank in the darkness, hoping they were ready. He stuck one hand up in the air and waved, and then, looping one arm around Charlie's chest, pushed off from the rock with his legs, with all his might.

His feet did not leave the rock; the force of the water was too strong. For a moment, he hung there, straining in the powerful current. It threatened to collapse his bruised legs, to push them back against the rock; his knees shook with the effort. He leaned sideways just a bit more, and suddenly they were free, both tumbling downward together, sucked deep into the black water. It was fortunate that they were joined securely, because he immediately lost his grip on Charlie in the violence of the current, and instinct took over. His arms and legs thrashed as he fought to bring them back up to the surface, but the water was far too powerful, and Charlie was added weight around his middle. He could feel the leash tighten almost unbearably; it felt as though it would cut him in half, and he prayed that it would hold as the men on the other end tried to pull them up and in towards them. Finally, just as his lungs felt ready to burst, the undertow released them, and they popped to surface.

They had drifted sideways toward shore while they were underwater, and the current was not as strong there. Don immediately grabbed Charlie, pulling his face out of the water. He was too spent to do anything other than just hold him there, as the men reeled them toward shore. He had nothing left, he was limp as a rag, and the men had to drag them out together. More rescuers had arrived by then, and they released the belt buckle and took off the leash, and trundled them up the bank and over the guard rail. Don found himself - stupid with fatigue, cold and shock - lying on the pavement next to Charlie. Finally, both of them were on the safety of the higher ground next to the road. The road was wet but the rain had stopped, although Don still felt chilled from the cool water in the culvert. He turned his head to look at Charlie, and the sight made him struggle up on a shaking elbow. Half-upright, his ears began to roar and blackness started creeping in on the edges of his vision, but he ignored it; he had no eyes for anything other than the pale face at the center of his field of view. Charlie didn't appear to be breathing; he lay there motionless, lifeless…

...

End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

**Deluge**

**Chapter 5**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer._

_A/N: Thanks to all for your kind reviews..._

**…**

Don blinked and the mist cleared from his vision; he must have blacked out briefly. When he came to, he was still on his elbow, although he was wobbling. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. His episode had gone unnoticed by the medical technicians, who were working on Charlie.

"I've got a faint pulse, but he's not breathing," said one of the medics tersely. He quickly checked Charlie's airway for obstructions and they immediately began to turn him over. "Watch his leg – it looks pretty busted up."

They situated Charlie face-down, and one of the men knelt behind him and grabbed him around the waist, and lifted. His torso hung downward, and the other medic began thumping his back. Don could see a thin stream of water running from Charlie's open mouth, and the panic the situation engendered gave him strength again, enough to sit up, enough to pray under his breath, "Come on, Charlie, come on…,"

Their ministrations seemed to go on for an eternity, and then suddenly Charlie convulsed, choking, and water gushed from his mouth. He hung there, choking, vomiting, retching, until the stream of water ceased, and the medics lay him back down again, carefully, on his side in case he vomited again, facing Don. Charlie's eyes were half open but not focused on anything, and before Don could say anything to him, his eyelids drifted shut.

During this, Don was dimly aware of more flashing lights and the sound of doors slamming, and now two familiar figures darted toward him, kneeling on either side of him – Colby Granger and Liz Warner.

The agents took in the two of them, their eyes filled with concern. "What happened?" asked Colby.

Don stared at him, then ran a shaking hand over his face, then looked back at Charlie, checking for the slight rise and fall of his chest. "I – I don't know. We were coming down the road and the SUV started hydroplaning. I thought I had it back under control, but -," he voice drifted off as he looked at Charlie's pale face, and the scene just seconds before the accident came back to him – Charlie laughing, teasing, calling him 'ace,' telling him to slow down…

He lurched on to his hands and knees and managed to turn away before he vomited. A medic was on him in a flash, and as Don finished retching and shakily sat back, the man studied him. He ran a practiced, gentle hand over the left side of Don's head, eliciting a wince. "Got a head injury here," he called back to other medic. He turned back to Don. "You get that in the river?"

Don fought down the unreasonable urge to tell the man it wasn't really a river. "No, I hit my head during the accident." The other medics had put Charlie on a gurney, and were starting to move it. Suddenly all the talk seemed superfluous. Don struggled to his knees, and lifted an arm for the medic to help him up. "I'm going with him."

The man hesitated. "Actually, I was going to suggest that, but let me get you a gurney."

Don's eyes were on Charlie, tracking his progress toward the ambulance, and he pushed himself to his feet, staggering. His legs felt like rubber. Colby and the medic each reached for an arm to steady him, and Don looked at the medic. "Is he going to be okay?" He straightened, and Colby dropped his arm and the medic released his grip, but shifted his hand to rest lightly on Don's shoulder, ready to grab him if necessary.

The medic's gaze shifted toward his face, and then toward Colby and Liz, who were watching him just as expectantly, then he looked away. "We don't give prognoses – we just stabilize them and get them to a hospital. You can go in the ambulance with him – you should be checked out, too."

Don took a step towards the ambulance – then stopped. "Wait – my gun, and my cell phone -," he looked back up the road toward where the SUV had gone into the water. He really could care less about the cell phone, but his service weapon was another matter. It had once ended up in the wrong hands, and the incident still bothered him.

A Glen Township police officer had been standing by, and he stepped forward. "I've got them, sir. Your cell phone screen was illuminated - we saw it under the rock. I picked it up, along with your weapon."

He held them out, and Don looked them, then at Colby. "Can you take them? I'll probably just have to give them up at the hospital."

Colby nodded. "You got it." He spoke with quiet confidence, but Don could see the worry in his eyes. It didn't make him feel any better, as he headed toward the ambulance.

...

At his insistence, the medics let him sit in the ambulance next to Charlie instead of taking him in a separate vehicle, but Don didn't remember the ride. As he lay in the exam room, short snatches of partial scenes in the emergency vehicle rolled through his head – quick glimpses of Charlie, with an oxygen mask over his face, eyes closed, a beeping monitor, the carefully blank expressions on the faces of the medics – but there was nothing that gave him an overall picture of what happened after that, of how Charlie was doing. Still, for some reason he had the impression that his brother's status was grave. He had the feeling he should be out in the waiting area, hounding the doctors and nurses for information. He had followed instructions, fretted through an exam, and had gone for his head X-ray, and had lay there long enough in the emergency bay that he was starting to get impatient. He was considering defying the doctor's orders to remain lying down, when the doctor himself pushed aside the curtain, with a familiar face hovering over his shoulder.

"Donnie," said his father, "are you okay?" His face was tight, pale, filled with anxiety.

"Yeah, I'm okay," mumbled Don, as he struggled to prop himself up on his elbows.

The doctor laid a restraining hand on his chest. "Whoa, there. You have a concussion, agent. You need to lie still."

Don complied; in truth, even partial elevation brought on nausea and a nasty pounding in his head. It made him wonder how he had managed to participate in Charlie's rescue – if he truly was rescued…

"How is Charlie?" There was no immediate response, and he looked from one face to the other as the doctor glanced at Alan. Don's voice rose, sharpened. "Charlie – he's okay, right?"

"They're working on him," the doctor said gently. "We'll know more in a little while."

Don felt ice settle into his gut. He'd seen that look before; he'd worn it himself when talking to families of kidnap victims. _Don't make any promises you can't keep_. The doctor was being carefully noncommittal; not discouraging, but not encouraging either. Not encouraging, because he didn't want to make any promises; he didn't want to lie – and that meant that Charlie's prospects didn't look good. The man's silence was just as telling as any spoken word.

Don lay there miserably, barely feeling the squeeze of his father's hand on his arm, his soft words of encouragement as he departed, conferring quietly with the doctor, as they slipped out the door.

**...**

The doctor ordained that Don needed to be admitted, and they put him in a room just outside the ICU. Don's ward and the ICU were connected, and Don's room was on the end of the hallway closest to the ICU. He was there when they wheeled Charlie past in the hallway, and he caught a glimpse of him through the doorway, of closed eyes, dark matted hair encircled by a bandage, a tube protruding from slack lips. Just a glance as they whisked him by, to the next room down. Their rooms weren't joined; they were separated by a narrow side hallway, but somehow, Don felt as though they were, and he lifted a hand toward the wall nearest Charlie, as he if he could reach through it and touch him. Then he drifted off to sleep.

He was doing a lot of that, drifting in and out. During one lucid episode, Colby had been there, during another, Robin. He remembered her soothing touch, and he recalled speaking to her, but not what he said, before he drifted off again.

When he woke sometime later, he could hear Amita's voice in the hall outside the room. She was speaking quietly, but she must have been right outside the door, because Don could hear her clearly. Her voice was shaking with the effort to hold back tears, as she carried on a one-sided conversation that could only mean she was talking on a cell phone. "Susan – hi, I know it's really early your time, but you said to call – yes, our flight got in okay this afternoon, but -," her voice cracked, and she choked back a sob. There was a long moment as she fought for control, and Don wondered who Susan might be. From Amita's reference to the time difference, perhaps someone in England? Susan Berry? Charlie had dated Susan Berry when he'd attended school in England years ago – well, more than dated, as Don realized when several years later, Susan had visited Los Angeles. Charlie had been fairly serious about her, apparently, but that was before he and Amita had really gotten close. Whoever this Susan was, she was obviously a confidant for Amita – and how strange would that be, if it truly was Susan Berry?

He broke off his musings as Amita continued, her words punctuated by short sobs and sniffles. "There was an accident – there's a horrible storm here, and Charlie and Don were driving – anyway, Don's SUV overturned and landed in a drainage canal. Don has a concussion – details are kind of sketchy because he wasn't too articulate when they brought him in, but apparently Charlie was thrown from the vehicle and pinned under it. He's pretty bad – broken bones, internal bleeding – they had to do emergency surgery." She was overcome by emotion for a moment, then regained control once more, and managed to go on. "Just as the rescuers got there, I guess the current came up, and swept the vehicle and Charlie away, into the water. He nearly drowned – Don went in and pulled him out. Yes, yes, I know – even with a concussion. Anyway, Charlie's out of surgery now, and in the intensive care unit, but – they don't know -," her voice broke again. "Susan, he might not make it." Amita was sobbing openly now as she talked, and every catch of breath tore at Don's heart. Not make it? It couldn't be that bad, couldn't possibly be that bad…

Amita's next words penetrated the growing fog of despair. "He wanted to start to try for children, Susan, but I told him no – God, I was so s-stupid. I t-told him I wanted to wait, that I wasn't sure – we argued about it before we left. I barely said two words to him on the p-plane…," she broke off then, no longer capable of words, crying into the phone. This was personal information. Susan was more than a casual acquaintance; that was certain. She had obviously become a close friend to Amita, as well.

"O-k-kay. I'll c-call if there is any n-news." Amita struggled through that last sentence, barely coherent. She must have disconnected, because all Don could hear now was the sound of her sobs.

He laid there and listened to her, and when he closed his eyes, it was as though the rain was falling on his face again. It was wet and cool. He opened his eyes, and touched his cheek, tentatively. It _was_ wet, but not with rain. He stared at the ceiling, as tears ran down his face.

**...**

End Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

**Deluge**

**Chapter 6**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer._

_A/N: I see from the reviews that you're keeping up with the posting pace, so here's another one, a bit earlier than planned._

**…**

With the next day came improved clarity, and some of the worst moments of Don's life. It was afternoon, and he lay there helplessly watching the steady stream of people who were close to Charlie pass by in the hallway – one or two at a time, because they didn't allow crowds in the ICU. The procession was ominous; it reminded Don of visitors to a funeral home, coming to pay their last respects. Don himself was confined to his bed; his doctor refused to allow him to move at all, insisting he do nothing. His room was kept only dimly lit; even television was not allowed, however visitors were. Colby, Liz and Nikki had been by, and although they skirted his questions, obviously trying to avoid upsetting him, the news on the case wasn't good. They were reasonably certain the arms shipment had already left the area. Somehow, it didn't seem to matter. After they had gone, Robin had also spent a good part of the morning with him, as had his father. Alan appeared suddenly in the doorway now, and slipped inside, almost stealthily, peering at Don in the dimness to see if he was awake.

"How is he?" Don asked, immediately.

Alan eyed him for a moment as if observing his condition, and then sighed as he wearily lowered himself into a chair. "About the same," he said. "No better, but no worse, either." He fell silent and sat, just watching Don for a moment.

Don frowned at him. "What?"

A small, sad smile played around Alan's lips. "I was waiting for you to ask again. Last night, you kept repeating yourself – you'd ask about him, then seconds later, you would ask again. The doctor said you have temporary short term memory loss, and it's pretty common with a concussion. He said it would improve over the next week. I have to admit, though, it was a bit disconcerting." He sighed, and went on. "The good news is, Charlie woke this morning. They took out his breathing tube and he spoke - or rather tried to. He wasn't capable of much more than a raspy whisper, but it was clear that he recognized both me and Amita - he said both of our names, and asked for you. That was a very big deal, the doctor told us, because up until then, they didn't know how long he had been under water, without oxygen. They weren't sure if there had been -," Alan nearly choked on the words, "- any brain damage." He stopped, looking at Don with concern, and hastened to add, "They did an EEG, too, and it came back normal. The doctor said there was no sign of any brain damage at all."

Don swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat. Brain damage? He hadn't even considered that possibility. _Thank God..._

Alan sighed again, and went on. "Now for the bad news. Charlie has a broken leg – no surprise there, since he was pinned under the SUV. The good news is, although it was badly broken, it wasn't crushed - they think it was cradled in a crevice in the rocks. He'll need pins and surgery when he's stable, but he shouldn't lose the leg. He also had some broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, which they removed in surgery last evening, plus a concussion. None of them life-threatening in themselves, but combined, and along with all the other bruising, both internal and external – well, it's a lot for one body to handle." He was trying to speak matter-of-factly, but his voice broke and quavered on the last few words, and he stopped.

Don fell silent. He'd been hoping for better news, and his father's response had generated a sense of gloom. He suddenly didn't want to talk anymore, but Alan continued. "You were rambling a bit when they brought you in, and they've been trying to piece together what happened from your statements and from what they found at the accident scene." He swallowed and licked his lips, and Don realized that his father didn't want to talk about this anymore than he did. "They think you lost control of the vehicle on the wet road, and it skidded off toward the canal. When the wheels hit the rocks, they think it turned over. Do you remember any of that?"

Don closed his eyes, and flashes of the moment came back to him. The sick sense of a sliding vehicle, the jolt, the brief sense of weightlessness, the press of the seat belt against his chest. He opened his eyes. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Charlie and I both felt the SUV start to hydroplane. I took my foot off the gas, but I guess I wasn't fast enough. We went into a slide." He closed his eyes again and saw Charlie's face, pale, staring at him, startled, in the soft glow of the instrument panel lights. Don opened his eyes again, immediately. "He wasn't wearing his seatbelt." The words sounded odd, choked, and Don realized he was crying again. He never cried, and he'd done it at least three times now in the past two days. "I was just about to tell him to put it on -," He broke off and raised a shaking hand to his eyes, pressing his fingers against the lids as if to hold in the tears. He ran the hand over his face, leaving a film of cool dampness, as his father spoke, gently.

"It wasn't your fault, Donnie."

Don swallowed, and tried to scowl away the tears. "Yes it was. I was driving. I shouldn't have been going so fast."

Alan shook his head. "They retrieved your SUV – hauled it out of the canal early this morning. The crash investigation team said it appeared from the limited damage to the tires and axles that you weren't traveling at an excessive speed. From what they could tell from the tire tracks, it appeared you tried to steer out of the slide, just as you should have. They said that section of road is notoriously slippery when it's raining." His voice lowered, shaking with emotion. "Donnie, what you did afterward, going in after him – you saved his life."

"We don't know that yet." Don's voice came out harshly, filled with bitterness, and he could see his father recoil.

"You can't say that," Alan protested. "I, for one, refuse to think that." Silence fell. "There is one thing that puzzles all of us. When the rescuers got there, Charlie was under water, and they judged from the water level and the position of the vehicle that he had been for several minutes. Yet when the SUV broke free, they said Charlie popped up after it, apparently still conscious. They weren't sure how he managed to hold his breath for that long."

"There was a house across the street," Don said slowly, trying to piece together the incidents from flashes of memory. "An old woman lived there. She offered to call 911, and I told her 'yes' even though I was sure Colby had already called it in - I figured she could give them an exact adress. I borrowed her garden hose – I brought it down to Charlie and told him to put it in his mouth and to breathe through it until help got there." He remembered the dark water closing over Charlie's face, and abruptly, he felt exhausted. His eyelids drooped.

Alan stared at him. "How on earth did you come up with that idea, under those conditions?"

Don closed his eyes, and could see the boy perched on the rocks above him, a skinny dark-haired waif in the pouring rain. _"There's a hose, up by the house…"_ It was the last thing he remembered, as he drifted off to sleep.

**…**

He felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, and he opened his eyes, struggling to wake. A familiar figure stood beside him – the boy from the canal. He was dry now, and in the light, Don could see the design on his T-shirt – the same shirt, apparently, that he had worn the night before. Now in the light Don could see that the design on his shirt was a three-dimensional cube, one of those clever trick drawings that left it unclear what the perspective was – from one viewpoint you were looking at the outside of the box, and from the other, you were looking into the interior of a cube. Don had the impression he'd seen it before, but he couldn't remember where. He didn't have time to reflect, because the boy was shaking his shoulder with more urgency now, hissing, _"He's drowning! You have to call someone – someone needs to check on him…"_

Don jerked, blinked, and rubbed his eyes. He was awake now and the boy was gone, but he was still breathing heavily from the sense of panic the dream had generated, snatches of memory mixing with reality. He could see Charlie's face, white against black water, his dark eyes watching him, as the water rose over his mouth… Without stopping to think, he jabbed at the call button for the nurses' station. A woman appeared almost immediately, silent on soft-soled shoes. She was about forty and had the air of someone who had seen it all, but she appeared concerned as she answered, "Yes, Mr. Eppes?"

"He's drowning!" he blurted, before he had a chance to stop himself.

She cocked her head and looked at him curiously. "Mr. Eppes, are you awake?"

"I need someone to check on my brother," stammered Don. "I think he's – something's wrong."

Her eyebrows rose and she assessed him for split second, then moved toward the bed to check his vitals, as she replied smoothly, "And why would you think that?"

She busied herself with the monitors, but Don could see her quick, sidelong glances. She thought he wasn't rational, he could tell – she probably thought his head injury had made him a bit whacky, or that he had just woken from a particularly vivid dream – and he had. Now that his request was out, it sounded odd even to him, but he persisted, stubbornly. "Just humor me, okay? Can you just go check on him?"

"The ICU isn't my ward," she responded, but another glance at the look on his face made her sigh, resignedly. "Okay, I'll go ask one of his nurses to check, and then I'll get back to you."

He saw her turn right toward the ICU as she left his room, and he waited impatiently for her to return. After several minutes, he saw a figure stride quickly by, but it wasn't her – instead, it was the attending doctor on the floor, heading toward his brother's room. Several minutes afterward, an X-ray technician followed, pushing a portable X-ray unit. Don's gut tightened.

Some time later – it seemed an eternity – his nurse reappeared, and stepped slowly into his room with a somber expression. Her eyes searched his face. "How did you know?"

Dan stared at her, his heart thumping. "Know what?"

A slight crease appeared between her brows, and she stepped forward. "His lungs were clear when they brought him in, according to his chart – he had expelled any fluid that was in them from his near-drowning. His lung X-rays last night were clear, too. Sometime today, however, his lungs apparently started filling with fluid again. It's not clear why, although victims of near-drowning can sometimes develop pneumonia or pulmonary edema as a reaction to the water that entered their lungs. Sometimes it signals infection, sometimes there is something in the water that triggers inflammation and a strong immune response – the body tries to flush out the foreign substance and generates fluid. It's a good thing you asked us to check him; it's already fairly advanced."

Don felt an uncomfortable twist of fear in his chest. "Can it be treated?"

She nodded, somberly. "Yes – with diuretics, antibiotics, and drugs that suppress immune response. They're putting him back on oxygen in the meantime."

"How bad it is?" pressed Don. "Is he in danger?"

The nurse hesitated. "Giving you general information on the condition is one thing. It's not my place to give you his prognosis, and I don't know, anyway – that's for his doctor to determine. I can have the doctor come and see you after he's done."

She turned and padded out the door. In spite of her avowal that she really didn't know how bad Charlie was, her face had been grave, and Don could feel her concern. It made his gut twist into a knot, and so preoccupied him that he forgot to thank her, until several minutes after she was gone. Instead, he sat staring absently at his bedcovers, and in his mind, he could still see Charlie's face, white on black, sinking into the dark water.

**…**

**End Chapter 6**


	7. Chapter 7

**Deluge**

**Chapter 7**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer._

_A/N: I am really enjoying and appreciating your comments - here's seven..._

**…**

He stared at Robin's face, and he knew.

The doctor hadn't been yet in to speak with Don about Charlie, and Alan hadn't been in either. A torturous hour had passed, then another, and then Robin had shown up, after work. Don had immediately sent her down the hall to the ICU, for news. She had walked back in, silent and pale, her lips closed, and he knew. Charlie was dying.

"I need to see him," he said, the words a rasp in his throat.

"You can't," she said softly, her eyes glistening with tears. "The doctor wants you lying down."

"He's dying."

"No," she protested. "He's -," she paused, and hung her head, then raised it again. "He's fighting for his life," she conceded. "But he _is_ a fighter, Don, you know that."

Don's lips tightened, and his eyes narrowed, stubbornly. "I'm going to see him, if I have to stand up and walk over myself."

She looked alarmed at that, and put a hand on his shoulder. "No – wait. Let me go ask someone." She hurried out of the room, and he could feel the pressure of her hand, warm and soft, on his shoulder, and wondered if Amita was sitting that way, with her soft hand on Charlie's shoulder, waiting…

Several minutes later, Dr. Burns, the attending physician on the floor, strode into the room, with Robin trailing behind him. Robin hadn't bothered with a nurse, apparently – she'd gone straight for the ultimate authority. Burns gave Don a long appraising look, picked up his chart and glanced at it. "How's the nausea?"

"Better," Don lied. Well, he wasn't really lying – the nausea from the head injury had receded, but it had been replaced by a stomach that was flip-flopping with fear. "What's the deal with my brother?"

Burns hesitated, and gently replaced the chart. "He isn't well," he finally conceded. "He has several injuries, is in a good deal of pain from those and his surgery, and is having difficulty breathing. We have him on some pain medication, but a lighter dose than we would normally use, because the pain meds depress his respiratory system. The primary danger is the fluid in his lungs -," he raised an eyebrow "- which we _did_ catch earlier than we might have, thanks to you. If the fluid starts to diminish, then I'd say his chances are very good. If not –," he broke off, searching for words, and decided to sidestep. "– well, the next few hours will tell. We will take another scan in an hour or two, and let you know then. You do not need to go in to see him at this instant –"

"Yes, I do," interrupted Don, firmly. "I'll go in a wheelchair if you'll get me one, but if you don't, I'm going in anyway."

Burns sighed. "Very well. I don't recommend it, but if you are determined to bypass my orders, then I will order a wheelchair. You need to avoid sudden movements, and sit still. You do seem more alert – perhaps it is time to allow you to move."

**…**

Don felt slightly dizzy as he eased himself into the wheelchair, but once he was sitting solidly, the sense of vertigo passed. Physically, he felt a good deal better, but mentally and emotionally – well, he didn't want to go there. Whatever was roiling inside, he buried; he couldn't afford to deal with it at the moment, or perhaps refused to face it.

Face it, however, was just what he had to do, when he got a look at Charlie. As Don was wheeled into the room, he was vaguely aware of Amita, huddled in a corner, numb from tears, fear and exhaustion, and Alan, hovering on his right. They had apparently moved away from Charlie, making room for Don to be pushed up to Charlie's bedside. "There," said Alan brightly, and it took a moment for Don to realize that his forced cheerfulness was directed at Charlie. "Didn't I tell you? Donnie's doing fine. You can relax."

As he spoke, Don was pushed to a stop at Charlie's bedside, and he caught a glimpse of his face. Part of it, anyway – a mask covered the lower half, and Don could hear the soft hiss of forced oxygen. Charlie's eyes were half-closed from weakness, or pain, or perhaps the sedative effects of his medication, but they glittered and his eyelids flickered as he caught sight of Don. He made a weak hand movement, and Don realized that it was a feeble attempt at a 'thumbs up.' The gesture contained affection, camaraderie, and bravado, but Don imagined that those were the last things Charlie was feeling. His brother had to be trying to make him feel better, Don thought. In reality, Charlie had to hate him for putting him here…

He realized that he was staring, dumbly, and he put a hand that shook slightly over Charlie's hand and left it there. He dropped his head, suddenly overwhelmed, trying to hide the tears that stung his eyes. "I'm sorry, buddy," he mumbled, his head still down, his hand gripping Charlie's as if he'd never let go. "I'm sorry."

Amita slid suddenly from her corner, and Don was aware that she and Alan were both moving, slipping out of the room – chased off, no doubt, by his sudden unusual show of emotion. He didn't care. He didn't care anymore what anyone saw or didn't see, when it came to his emotional state. Charlie's six months in England had been long enough for him to realize how much he missed his brother, to know that Charlie played a much bigger role in his life than he'd ever thought – and now he was being taken away. Don didn't give a damn what anyone thought; it didn't matter anymore. His brother was dying.

He looked up to see Charlie watching him, his brow furrowed with concern. He shook his head slightly, as if to say, "_I know what you're thinking, and it's not true. You shouldn't blame yourself_." Both the expression and the movement were faint, muted by weakness; Charlie's strength was fading.

"Yes, it is," Don retorted, harshly, as if Charlie had actually spoken. "It _was_ my fault." In spite of his rough words, however, he didn't pull away – instead he sat there with his hand solidly on top of Charlie's as if he could impart some of his own strength by the contact alone. He was there to stay – he'd be damned if anyone would take him from Charlie's side, not now.

...

Don blinked and raised his head – the boy was back. He was standing by Don's wheelchair, and Don had no idea how long he had been there – he must have fallen asleep. The boy didn't say a word, but when Don looked at him, the boy nodded at Charlie, as if to say good-bye, and then he looked at Don and smiled, before slipping away, out of the room. He had obviously come to visit – maybe Don had really seen him earlier, also, and had only thought he was dreaming.

Don closed his eyes, then opened them again and looked at Charlie. He had gotten the impression from the boy's nod that perhaps he had been talking to him, but Charlie's eyelids were shut. Don's hand had slipped from his, and as he reached for his brother's hand again, Don could feel that it was cold. He stared, and noticed abruptly that he couldn't see Charlie's chest moving. His heart began a painful thumping, and as the horrible realization dawned on him, he gasped, and reached a shaking hand for the call button.

Before he could hit it, he heard voices behind him - Dr. Burns, and a technician wheeling a portable X-ray unit into the room. Alan appeared behind them, but remained in the doorway. Their voices were calm, matter-of-fact, and Don wanted to scream at them, to tell them they were too late, Charlie was dead – where in the hell had they been, anyway? He couldn't find his voice, however; his throat was closed tight with anger and grief.

"Time for an X-ray," Dr. Burns said evenly, and Don stared at him incredulously. Couldn't the man tell he'd just lost a patient? He gestured toward Charlie, trying to find his voice, and as he did, he glanced that way, and nearly fell out of his wheelchair.

Charlie was looking back at him – through half-closed lids, but his eyes were open. For a moment Don thought that they had drifted open the way that the eyes of the dead sometimes did, but then his brother blinked, and his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. Don managed to get his breath, feeling somewhat foolish – if he'd thought to check the monitor, he would have seen that Charlie's heart was beating. He told himself that he was groggy and wasn't thinking straight; he'd just woken up, after all. Charlie was smiling at him under the oxygen mask, and for some odd reason, it looked just like the smile the boy had worn before he slipped away, out of the room.

The boy was gone, Don realized abruptly, and he still hadn't gotten his name. Charlie was alive, and the kid had been a large part of that - he had to find that boy and thank him…

They wheeled Don out of the room to avoid any unnecessary exposure to radiation from the X-ray machine, and he waited silently with Alan, and Amita, who had come up to stand in the hallway with them, her hands wrapped protectively around her middle. They were motionless, silent with anticipation – with mingled anxiety and hope. All of them knew that the X-ray results were critical – that Charlie's progress, or lack of it, might mean the difference between life and death. Don couldn't speak if he wanted to – his head was spinning; he was still reeling from the emotional gut-punch he'd been given – or had dealt himself, when he was sure that Charlie was dead.

After a few moments, Dr. Burns stepped out of the room. He was smiling, and the trio emitted a collective breath, before he even spoke. "The fluid is receding, and Charlie's oxygen levels are improving," he said, warmly. "He's far from out of the woods, yet, but if he keeps going like this, he'll be fine." He clapped a hand – gently – on Don's shoulder. "Thanks to your insistence that we check him, agent, we caught it in time. Not a bad week's work – you saved his life not once, but twice."

"It was the boy." Don finally managed words. They spilled out, tumbling, awkward, halting – he still couldn't talk right, he was too emotional. "He was here, right before you came in – did you see him? He was the one who told me about the hose - I need to get his name, so I can thank him."

They looked at him, puzzled, and Dr. Burns and Alan exchanged a guarded glance. "Better get you back in bed," was all that Burns said. "I think you're a little over-tired."

...

End Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

**Deluge**

**Chapter 8**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer._

_A/N: Many thanks for the reviews, I very much appreciate them._

**…**

Two days later, Don was feeling more like himself, a good deal sharper and more alert. He still had problems recalling the last few days - the accident was a murky collection of images, some more vivid than others, and he really didn't remember his first day in the hospital much at all. He'd been told of the treatment he'd gotten, and of all visitors he'd had, but only bits and pieces stuck in his memory. Now, however, his brain appeared to be in decent working order, and the nausea and headaches were gone. After a round of cognitive and other tests, Don was finally discharged.

He went home to Robin's apartment. Since their engagement six months earlier, he'd been spending an increasing amount of time there. Sometimes she stayed at his place, but more often than not he went to hers. It meant a little shorter trip for her to get to work in the morning, and she just seemed to have more _stuff_ than him. It was easier on her if he stayed there, and he didn't mind. Now, she was paying back the favor; she had taken two days off work to be with him - he wasn't allowed to be alone, just yet. Alan would have stayed with him at the Craftsman, but Robin insisted, so that Alan could be free to visit Charlie in the hospital – and, as she murmured in Don's ear with a suggestive smile, so that she could play nurse. Don would be allowed to be left alone by Monday, although he wouldn't be permitted to drive for two weeks. Ordinarily, that lack of mobility would bother him, but at the moment the last thing he wanted to do was drive.

The first night there, he woke with a start in the middle of the night in Robin's bedroom, sweating; his chest heaving. He'd been dreaming of the accident again, and he found he was gripping the bed, fighting off the feeling of vertigo that came with a spinning vehicle. Robin's soft breathing sounded next to him, and he tried to slow his own, lying still so he wouldn't wake her. Charlie was okay, he told himself – he was steadily improving, and would go home himself in a week, after surgery on his leg to put in pins and screws to stabilize the broken bones. Although Charlie was still mending, he was off oxygen, and Alan had told Don on the phone that his brother had been moved out of the ICU that afternoon. There was no reason for the sickening lurch of fear in Don's gut, no reason that he should be reliving the accident every time he fell asleep. No reason… He lay there, clenching the covers around him, and stared up at the ceiling.

...

He was at the Craftsman a week later when Charlie came home. He'd wanted to help Alan bring Charlie home from the hospital, but as it worked out, he didn't. Robin was at work, Amita at school, and Alan was already at the hospital, along with a visiting Colby, when they got word that Charlie would be released, so Alan told Don not to bother Robin for a ride, and just to stay at the Craftsman - they would be home in minutes, and Colby had volunteered to help instead. Don spent the time pacing, unaccountably restless.

Charlie was just twenty-four hours out of his leg surgery, and was still very weak, and in obvious pain. His dark eyes lit up when he saw Don, however, and a smile even made it to his pain-tightened face, as Colby wheeled him over the threshold in his wheelchair, and Alan held the door. "Hey," Charlie said, "I didn't realize you were here. I thought you were at Robin's."

"I was," said Don. It seemed odd to be having this mundane discourse, conversing pleasantly as if the accident never happened, but it was good. He could feel some of the tightness leave his gut as he heard Charlie's voice – weak, but familiar. Robin had taken Don to the hospital for two short visits during the previous week, but it had been two days since he had seen his brother - two days of worrying and waiting, wondering if the leg surgery would be too much for him, in his weakened condition. Don tried to grin. "I thought I'd move over here and bother Dad for a while."

Alan smiled at him. "Don can't drive for a week yet, so he's housebound. He's offered to help out here in the meantime."

For a moment, Don tensed. Maybe Charlie didn't want him here – maybe the last thing he wanted around was the person who was almost responsible for his death. Colby and Alan were helping him out of the wheelchair and onto the sofa as Alan spoke, and Charlie was grimacing with pain – Don wasn't sure if the grimace was generated by his presence, or Charlie's injuries. As soon as his younger brother was situated, however, he sighed with relief and the smile was back, lighting up his dark eyes. "That's great," he enthused, between pants, as he tried to get his breath, shortened from pain and his feeble efforts to move. "We can catch up."

Catching up, however, seemed to be easier said than done. Although they both were happy in each other's company and Charlie seemed relaxed and at ease, there were topics that they sidestepped. One of them was the strain that was apparent between Charlie and Amita. Although she hovered over him devotedly, Don could sense that there was something not quite right between them, and he suspected it might have had to do with the argument – the one he'd heard Amita describing on the cell phone to 'Susan' – who indeed had turned out to be Susan Berry, Charlie's old girlfriend, now apparently married herself and a friend to both of them. That argument, Don remembered vaguely, had been over a disagreement on when to have children – or maybe whether there would be children at all. He suspected that Charlie and Amita hadn't brought it up again yet, but he could feel it in the sometimes awkward moments between the two of them – feel the unfinished argument, and the pain it generated.

The other topic was the accident itself. He and Charlie hadn't talked about it at all, with the exception of Charlie's quietly, almost shyly murmured thanks, the first day he was home. Don knew he should apologize, and he fully intended to do that at some point, but at the moment, he was afraid to go into the subject in depth – they'd been getting along pretty well, and he was afraid of stirring up unpleasant memories. Charlie seemed accepting of him, and for now, that was enough. Don could only hope that time would dull any resentment.

So, with all of the elephants lumbering around the room, the illegal arms case, still unsolved, turned out to be a godsend. Colby, Liz and Nikki filled them both in on the latest – even though one arms shipment unfortunately had left the area, they suspected there would be more, and that meant there was still a chance to catch the people behind it. Don and Charlie spent hours that week going over the case in the living room of the Craftsman, narrowing down the possible suspects by repeated applications of Charlie's algorithms, and by the clues turned up by investigative work in the field done by Don's team. As always, the work seemed to bring them together. They never had been good at directly discussing anything important between them – work had always been a necessary filter, and that, apparently hadn't changed. Don didn't care, though, that they had to use the case as a crutch – it had always been that way, and somehow, it felt good, familiar. After all, after years apart, they'd found a relationship through working together. That much, it seemed, was still the same.

...

The week flew by, and Don finally was allowed to drive. He still hadn't cleared the Bureau doctor yet – he wasn't even scheduled for an appointment until Thursday, and A.D. Wright had told him to wait until the following Monday to report back to the office. During the course of the week, he and Charlie, along with some sharp work by Don's team, had cracked the arms smuggling case, and the ring been taken into custody. Don suspected his extra days off were Wright's way of thanking him for working the case while on leave. With the closing of the case, getting back to the office was not such an urgent matter. Normally, Don would be anxious to get back; he had discovered during his recuperation from an earlier stabbing that he hated being out of the action, but this week, he was in no hurry. He was enjoying the time with his family, he told himself, although he knew it was more than that. He still felt that he had something to make up to Charlie, and to prove to himself that he hadn't blown it; that somehow he and Charlie would find their way back to the tentative closeness they'd had before Charlie had left for England.

He stretched as he stepped out of his old bedroom that morning, and inhaled deeply, with a smile on his face. He was looking forward to the day – he'd planned to help his father a bit in the yard and hang with Charlie for a while, and then, later in the evening, go out to dinner with Robin, and spend the night at her place. Normal, blessedly mundane activities. First though, now that he could drive, he had a couple of tasks to address.

He ambled downstairs, and took a path to the kitchen that led past the sofa, where Charlie lately spent most of his time. His younger brother was already dressed – well, as dressed as his cast allowed – he was living in track pants with snaps up the legs, although today he was wearing a button-down shirt instead of a T-shirt. He was sitting propped against the arm of the sofa, his legs stretched out on the cushions. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he had one arm flung casually across the back of the sofa, and the other hand holding a nearly empty mug of coffee. The light from the window behind him gleamed off his dark curls, carefully washed the night before by Amita. He grinned at Don, and Don realized that he'd been anticipating that grin, needing it more than a cup of coffee - like a fix – just that little bit of added reassurance that yes, things were still okay. Part of that need came from the nasty dreams about the accident that still plagued Don's sleep – after those dark visions, it was relief each morning to know that Charlie was still with them, still improving. Part of it also was the need to know – at least as far as Don could tell - that Charlie still didn't seem to blame him for what happened.

"Mornin'," said Charlie, and Don grinned back at him and gestured at his nearly empty mug.

"Need a refill?"

Charlie's grin widened and he thrust his mug toward Don. "You bet. My wife disappeared into the kitchen a while ago, and I haven't seen her since."

Don gave him a wry look. "She's probably hiding – tired of waiting on you."

He wasn't sure, but it looked like Charlie's smile faltered just a little, and then the expression flitted away, leaving the smile fixed in place. "That's okay – I'm an equal opportunity sloth," he teased. "I don't care who gets me my coffee, as long as somebody does."

Don snorted amiably as he snagged the mug and pushed through the kitchen door, although Charlie's expression had made him uncomfortable. Was that sad, uncertain look generated by him, or Amita? His father and Amita were bent over photos, spread out over the kitchen table.

"Oh my gosh – look at that one!" exclaimed Amita, laughing and pointing.

Don headed for the coffee pot, grabbed a mug and poured, filling it, then re-filled Charlie's. He picked up both cups, then turned and regarded Amita and his father as he took a sip.

Alan chuckled and straightened. "There are some blackmail shots in here, for sure." He smiled mischievously at Don, and waved a hand toward the picture that Amita had pointed out. "Like you and Charlie in the tub together, after you both decided to roll in the mud."

"I didn't roll in the mud," Don said mildly, glancing at the photo. "Charlie did. I was trying to pull him out of it and I slipped."

Alan snorted. "I beg to differ. You were having far too good a time – although at eight, you didn't want to admit that. You were much too old for something like wallowing in the mud with your younger brother. Not to mention the fact that you were old enough to know better and you were afraid of getting yelled at by your mother. That story was a convenient excuse."

Don sighed with exaggerated regret. "And here I thought you'd bought it all that time."

Alan chuckled again and began gathering up the photos. "I'm trying to get some of these pictures into an album, but right now, I'm going to transfer them to the dining room table, so people can sit here and eat breakfast."

Don moved toward back toward the doorway, but Amita intercepted him. "Is that for Charlie?" she asked, looking at the second mug in his hand.

"Yeah."

She reached for it. "I'll take it to him." She spoke matter-of-factly, but Don could see suppressed tension in her movements, in her carefully bland expression.

"That's okay, I don't mind."

"No, really." She reached for the mug insistently. She had the air of someone who had steeled oneself to performing an unpleasant task, but somehow, Don didn't think it had anything to do with the coffee. He relinquished the mug to her with a shrug tempered by a smile, and she sent him a tentative smile back, and followed Alan through the door. Don strolled after them.

Once through the door, Alan headed for the dining room table and Amita veered off for the living room. Don could see her hand Charlie the coffee and then sink into a chair near him, her back straight. Her body language contained an odd mix of determination and uncertainty, and Don, feeling somehow like a voyeur, looked away, back to his father.

Alan was carefully spreading pictures out on the table, smiling, seemingly oblivious to the subtle tension. "If you have a minute, come out back with me before we eat," he said. "I wanted to tackle some trimming, and I could use a little help, if you're up to it. I'd like to get it done before it gets too warm."

They headed out through the kitchen and the back door with their coffee mugs, and made their way to a stand of shrubs along the house. Alan pointed. "Those. I'd like to trim them – besides; I think Amita and Charlie need a little time to themselves."

Don looked at him. Apparently Alan hadn't been oblivious to Amita's behavior after all. "Why, what's up?"

Alan shrugged. "I have no idea. I just got the impression that Amita might have wanted to talk to Charlie privately about something – or maybe they just need some alone time. They haven't had much of that since they got back from England, and they _have_ been through a lot in the last couple of weeks. Maybe they just need to reconnect. I know you were going over to Robin's tonight – I was thinking of heading out myself, and giving them some time to themselves."

Don nodded, his brow furrowed a bit. "Okay," he said. "Let me go change into an old T-shirt – we can tackle this now; eat breakfast later."

He trudged back inside and set his mug down in the kitchen, then began to push through the kitchen door. He thought he'd made enough noise to make his presence known, but apparently he hadn't. Amita's tearful voice stopped him in his tracks.

"I'm sorry."

Don peered around the edge of the door. Amita had pulled her chair forward to sit beside Charlie, and Don could see him reach for her, and as she leaned into him, he pulled her to his chest. Don heard a muffled sob, and saw Charlie pat her back soothingly.

"It's okay," Charlie said quietly, his own voice filled with emotion. "I shouldn't have pushed you – I just assumed you'd want them, too -,"

She raised her head quickly, sniffled, and looked him in the face. "I didn't say that I didn't want children. I haven't ruled them out - if we did have them, I just wasn't sure about how many, or the timing... When you were in the hospital, I was so afraid – oh, Charlie, forget what I said. Let's just start trying now."

"No, no. Raising children is a big commitment. I don't want you rushing into a decision because of what just happened. We have time," he said reassuringly, although his voice wavered just a bit. He pulled her head back down against his chest, and held her. "We'll just set that aside for now, and concentrate on being married. You can take some time to think about it."

Don hesitated; he was in an awkward position. He could hardly keep coming through the door – they would know he'd heard them. He eased backward and silently shut the door, quietly crossed the kitchen floor to the sink, and then proceeded to make noise – turning on the water, clanking his coffee mug. After a couple of minutes of that, he strode back over to the kitchen door and pushed it open with a loud thump.

He had apparently given them enough warning. He caught a glimpse of Amita at the top of the stairs; he suspected she was heading toward her and Charlie's bedroom until she could hide the traces of her tears. He stumped forward. "Gonna help Dad trim the bushes," he said offhandedly, as he headed toward the stairs. "I gotta change. Dad said he'll make breakfast afterward – can you wait, or do you want me to get you something?"

"I can wait." Something in Charlie's tone made Don think that waiting was the last thing he wanted, and that he wasn't talking about breakfast. He was gazing up the stairs after Amita, and the wistful expression on his face tugged at Don's heartstrings, and stayed with him long afterward, all the way through the morning.

...

End Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

**Deluge**

**Chapter 9**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer._

_A/N: The site doesn't appear to be showing reviews for either chapter 8 or chapter 9, but they are coming through to my email, and I assure you, I am reading every one. Many thanks._

**…**

Morning was nearly over before Don got a chance to run his errands. He took his father's car, sliding in behind the steering wheel with hands that were slightly clammy, and before he turned the key, sat a for moment to let the uncomfortable jolt of anxiety subside. It was his first time behind the wheel of a vehicle since the accident. A few minutes later, he was tooling down Arroyo Parkway, his fears fading. By the time he got to the hardware store, his jitters were already a memory. He came out with a garden hose coiled around his shoulder, got in the car, and headed for Glen Township.

The butterflies in his stomach returned as he turned onto the road that ran out to the country club. It ran along the drainage culvert the entire way, and Don's gut twisted as he turned the corner and it came into view. It was a beautiful sunny day, and the water filling the culvert had long since receded to meager trickle, but as Don looked at it, a shudder ran through him. The depth of the channel, the piles of sharp boulders – he could still remember the powerful rush of dark water, and it seemed a miracle to him now that either of them had survived that night.

It was a few miles to the old woman's house, and by the time Don got there, the knot in his stomach had loosened a bit. He parked the car in the gravel driveway, and pulled the hose from the trunk. In the daylight, he could see that the grass had been mowed, and although the paint was fading on the clapboard house, the few shrubs were neatly trimmed. Obviously, someone took care of the place for the old lady – it had to be the boy, and Don was determined to find out his name.

The leash had been put back – the rescuers that night must have returned it to the woman – and a tiny toy terrier bobbed on the end of it, squeaking and yipping. Don stared at it for a moment, wondering how a lead for such a small dog had managed to hold his and Charlie's weight. It did look sturdy, however, far sturdier than was necessary for the mite of a dog on the end of it. Shaking his head, thanking God for old women who were paranoid about their pets, he climbed the wooden steps and knocked on the door, with the dog yapping excitedly at his heels. After a few moments, the doorknob rattled, and the door opened.

The old woman peered out at him, and then her wrinkled face spread into a smile, revealing even dentures. "Hush now, Sadie," she scolded the terrier. "Well now, you look much better than you did a few weeks ago, young man. You gave me quite a turn that night."

"Sorry about that," Don said, relieved that she recognized him. There was a small viewing hole in the door; he could see it now in the light, so she obviously had gotten a look at him. He must have looked frightening that night, soaking wet and nearly vibrating with tension, a strange man in the dark. "We were in a bad spot. Your hose ended up in the river – I thought I'd bring you a new one."

"Oh, pshaw." She waved a hand at him. "That wasn't necessary. Jimmy was going to get me one. Not that he needs to water the lawn, after all the rain." She opened the door wider. "Come in, won't you – agent? It is 'agent,' isn't it?"

She turned from the door, hunched and hobbling, and Don set the new hose on the wooden porch and followed her in, politely. "Yes, ma'am, Special Agent Don Eppes, FBI."

"Sally Webber; nice to meet you. Sit down, then, agent, and I'll get us some tea."

Don was inclined to refuse – he hadn't intended to stay – but he suspected the woman didn't get much company, and so he let her fuss, let her bring out her china teapot and cups, with sugar, cream, and cookies. He sat politely on the edge of a hard sofa, and sipped at his tea. It was surprisingly good, dark and strong.

"How is your brother, then? I heard some of what happened from the local police. They said he went in the water, and you went in after him." Her eyes gleamed with admiration, and Don shifted uncomfortably. He didn't deserve admiration – it was his error that put Charlie in danger to begin with.

"Much better, thanks. He's at home, recuperating. He's going to be fine."

"Oh, that's such a relief. I felt so badly that I didn't let you in that night – Jimmy has warned me that bad people might try to get in my house that way – say they were in an accident, you know."

"You did exactly what you should have," Don said firmly. "Jimmy is absolutely right." He cocked an eyebrow. "Who is Jimmy – is he the boy who takes care of your lawn?"

She threw back her head and cackled. "Oh, he'd love to hear you say that – 'boy.' No, Jimmy is my younger brother. He lives in Whittier with his wife, but he comes out to mow and prune my shrubs, and other odds and ends. He keeps trying to get me to go live in one of those assisted living places near him, but I won't go." She snorted. "I'm not that old, yet." Her face creased in a conspiratorial smile. "He's nearly as old as I am."

Don stared at her, and his brow furrowed. "There was a boy there that night – he was the one who told me you had a hose. I thought maybe he worked for you."

Her brow puckered. "Boy? I can't think of who that would be, unless it was that immigrant teenager. He's come around once or twice, asking for work - I think his family is working in the orchard up the road. I sent him off - I have no need for anyone, with Jimmy's help, and besides, I really can't afford it. There's a girl up the road, about nine – sometimes she rides her bike down here to see Sadie – Jenny Wicks – such a nice child. Maybe it was her? Long blonde hair – although I don't know what she would be doing at night, out in the rain."

"No, it wasn't a girl. It was a boy, eleven or twelve, dark hair."

She shook her head, and lifted one shoulder in a feeble arthritic shrug. "I don't think so then - unless it was that migrant boy."

"Do you remember his name?"

She cackled again. "Goodness, no. I don't think he gave it to me, and I'm certain I didn't ask him for it."

Don stared at her, momentarily at a loss for words. He felt a profound sense of disappointment; he had been looking forward to meeting the boy, thanking him, maybe even giving him a bit of a reward…

He chatted for a while longer with Sally Webber, then politely took his leave, hooking up the hose on the way out. As he headed back down the road, he thought about the boy. Where had he come from? Sally was probably right, he was likely the son of migrant farm workers, transients – if he had gone to the house to ask for work, he would have seen the hose and the leash. Maybe, like the girl up the road, he had stopped to visit with the terrier. That would explain why he knew how far the leash would play out; would explain the fact that he'd seen the hose, nearby... It would explain a lot of things, like why he was out in the rain on such a night. One could reasonably assume that the son of a migrant worker might have more freedom to roam, possibly less parental supervision. Don had come to the conclusion that he hadn't truly seen the boy at the hospital – he'd simply dreamed he had. The effects of the concussion had made his dreams seem more real, and his confused state of mind had made it hard to separate them from reality. He was certain, though, that the boy had been out there in the rain with him that night. It was a shame he would never get a chance to meet him, to have the opportunity to say 'thank you.'

At a bend in the relatively deserted roadway, he suddenly braked, did a three point turn, and headed back down the road, back past Sally Webber's house, and toward the orchard. He reached it in a few minutes; it lined the section of smooth asphalt that led to the country club. He found the turnoff for the orchard trucks, and guided the car slowly down the dirt tracks, the tang of citrus rising in the air. Don finally got to where the workers were, stopped the vehicle, turned it off, and stepped out. He was greeted by several wary looks, quick glances that darted away, and back again when he wasn't looking, and Don suspected they all thought he was an immigration agent. He walked up to the woman nearest him, and said, "I'm looking for a boy. He helped us out a couple weeks back - there was an accident up the road, and I want to thank him."

Thankfully, she spoke English, although it was moderately accented. "There are boys here. What is his name?"

Don grimaced, ruefully. "I don't know. I didn't get it. He was wearing a shirt with a cube on it - a box -," he gestured vaguely with his hands, "- you know. He has maybe gone to the houses up the road, looking for work." He let the carrot drop. "I'd like to give him a reward."

She studied him for a moment, and then said, "Wait here, please."

She stepped over to talk to a man and another woman, and they conversed quietly in quick bursts of Spanish. The man shot a glance at Don, then went into the orchard, and when he came back he had two boys with him. They looked at Don hopefully, but he shook his head. "No, it wasn't either of them."

"I went to the lady's house up the road, to ask for work," offered the older of the two, a boy of about sixteen.

Don shook his head. "You weren't at the accident. I'm looking for a boy who was at the accident that night."

The man sent the two boys back into the orchard, and eventually, they came back with several others, but none of them were the boy that Don had seen. The man shrugged, expressively. "The workers, they come and they go," he said. "Perhaps the boy and his family have moved on."

Don handed the man his card, and a twenty. "Do me a favor, and watch for him, okay? He wears a T-shirt with a box on the front. If you find him, there will be a reward for you, too."

The man took the card, his eyes gleaming, and bobbed his head. "Si, I will, Senor, thank you."

Don got back in the car, started it up, and managed to get turned around in the narrow ruts. All the way back to Pasadena, he could see boy's face in his mind.

...

He took Robin to one of her favorite restaurants that night, a little place that specialized in Thai-California fusion. He gazed at her over a glass of wine, and thought about Charlie and Amita. "So," he said, without preamble. "What about kids?"

She choked just a bit on a noodle, recovered, and wiped her mouth daintily. Robin had broached the subject tentatively on more than one occasion since they'd gotten engaged, and Don had dodged the question every time. She looked at him closely, a hint of a bemused smile playing around the edges of her lips. "What brought that on?"

Don shrugged. "I don't know. You asked me a while back, and I've been thinking about it. I want to know if you want kids. It might be good thing to agree on before we get married, don't you think?"

She nodded, cautiously. "Yes, that's why I brought it up. Why, what do you think?"

"I asked you first."

"Technically, you didn't, but okay. Yes."

Don felt a foolish grin starting. "'Yes' what?"

He could see her biting back a smile, blushing just a bit. "Yes, I want kids."

"How many?"

Her eyes narrowed as if she was trying to determine his motives, but her smile remained. "I don't know. Two, three."

He grinned at her, feeling suddenly ridiculously happy, and her smile broadened. She waited, and when he didn't speak, she said, "So what about you?"

"That sounds good."

She wasn't letting him off the hook – she was going to make him say it, he could tell. "What does?" she pressed.

"I want kids, two or three, as soon as possible."

One eyebrow arched, and she smiled demurely as she picked up her fork. "I'd like to finish my dinner, first."

...

End Chapter 9

_A/N - One more chapter - who is the boy?_


	10. Chapter 10

**Deluge**

**Chapter 10**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: I hadn't planned on updating this until tomorrow, but my director called tonight and told me to get on a plane for Mexico in the morning. Considering that I don't know how long I'll be gone (at least a week), I thought I'd better hop online and send you this last bit..._

**...**

Don slept in the next morning at Robin's and got to the Craftsman a little before lunchtime, ready to talk. He was on a roll – as if he'd had a planned agenda for all the things he needed to do before he went back to work – including bringing the new hose to Sally Webber, and finally talking to Robin about kids. Finding and thanking the boy was on that list too, although he'd struck out on that one. There was one thing he had to do yet, and that was to finally bring up the accident with Charlie, and apologize. It was time – it was past time. He had to put aside any fear he had that the subject might put a damper on their historically rocky relationship, and have it out. He arrived at the Craftsman ready to tackle the subject head on, only to find Charlie asleep on the sofa.

He slipped out to the kitchen, where he found his father quietly kneading bread dough. "How was your night with Robin?" asked Alan, with a smile and a quick glance sideways.

"Good," said Don, with feeling. "Really good."

Alan smiled. "It sounds like a night out was just what the doctor ordered, for all of us." His smile turned conspiratorial, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm not sure what was going on between Charlie and Amita the past couple of weeks, but I think they worked at least some of it out last evening. I get the sense that there still might be an issue, but they actually seemed more comfortable this morning. Amita was in a good enough mood to go shopping."

Don thought about Charlie and Amita's conversation yesterday, and figured that Amita must be relieved that the pressure was off to decide about children, although he was certain that Charlie didn't feel the same way. Marriage, he had been told by his rabbi, was about compromise at the right moments, and he had to give Charlie credit – compromise was just what his brother was doing. Charlie was putting his own wishes aside for the sake of his marriage – and maybe in the long run, that would get both Charlie and Amita what they wanted.

"That's good," he said simply. He stood and watched his father for a moment, then turned and pushed back through the door, and drifted over toward the sofa.

Charlie was still asleep. The morning sun drifted through the windows and glinted off his dark curls, but his hair's healthy sheen seemed at odds with the rest of his appearance. In sleep, the evidence of his recent ordeal seemed more apparent. He still looked pale, and seemed thinner than Don remembered him before he'd gone to England. There were dark shadows under his eyes, left by pain, and lack of sleep – Don knew that Charlie had nightmares of his own at night. Don felt suddenly depressed and anxious again – maybe it wasn't a good idea to bring up the accident, after all. The mention of it could bring simmering resentment to the surface, and capsize the tentative re-forging of trust between them.

He sighed, and moved aimlessly back across the room, into the dining room where he stood at the table, idly surveying the pictures spread out in front of him. Memories, so many of them, but the pictures skewed the truth. They looked happy in all of them – no one took a picture when their kids were fighting or upset, after all – but he knew he hadn't done a good job of being a big brother to Charlie when they were younger. The five-year age difference, maybe a little resentment as a result of all the attention Charlie got because of his genius, and perhaps other factors had gotten in the way. In those days, Don had never gotten the intense, nerdy little kid – oh, he'd been a good protector, and the first to defend Charlie against the inevitable bullies – but he'd ignored him otherwise. He hadn't understood until recent years how much Charlie looked up to him – a thought he would have scoffed at as a kid. People looked up to Charlie, not the other way around. What could Charlie have possibly seen in him?

He hadn't believed Alan when his father had told him that – had told him that Charlie would do anything he asked – when they first started working together. He knew he was a pretty astute judge of character, of what people were thinking, but when it came to his younger brother, he was hopelessly myopic. It had taken five years of working together on cases to make him realize that his father was right – and that the disdain he'd felt for that little nerdy kid had melted away, and turned into a strong friendship, the love of a brother for a brother.

He glanced at the pictures, thinking about the wasted time of their youth, and hoped fervently that he would be a better father than he had been a brother. When it came down to it, he still wasn't quite sure of their connection…

He stopped still and stared, his heart thumping, and then pawed at the picture that had just caught his eye, slipping it out into view from under some other photos. It was the boy from the river, drenched as he had been that night, water dripping from the T-shirt that hung from his skinny frame, running in rivulets from dark curls. The same boy, down to the odd cube-like design on his shirt, laughing into the camera, holding a garden hose. Water splashed from the hose, caught motionless, sparkling on photo paper.

With a shaking hand, Don turned the photo over. '_Charlie, Age 11,' _he read, and as he caught sight of the other photos with it, the memories flooded back. They'd been washing Dad's car that day and the session had turned into a water fight, and into one of the rare moments of true friendship between them. They'd both gotten soaking wet, laughing until their sides ached. Apparently Dad, or their mother, had captured some of it on film. There was another photo – one of Don, shirtless and lean but already sporting muscles at sixteen and just as drenched – and then a picture of the two of them. In that one, Don had gotten hold of the hose, and Charlie was dashing from him, laughing as Don sprayed him.

He picked up the photo of Charlie and the hose again and stared at it, his mind reeling from a deluge of emotion, then closed his eyes. He could still see the vision of the drenched, waif-like boy perched above him on the rocks in the ditch, like Don's very own muse, seemingly so real, but obviously some kind illusion brought on by his concussion, or the stress of the situation, or both. That vision had been not been of a stranger, but of Charlie himself - or Don's perception of him, mixed with some of Don's own subconscious thoughts - and the resulting image had guided him, helped him think through the confused fog generated by the concussion, through the mind-numbing fear.

As Don thought about it, he realized that he hadn't had the vision since that day when he sat by Charlie's side in the hospital. The boy had shown up when Charlie's life was in danger, and he had gone when Charlie had turned the corner and began to heal. Just as interesting, the boy had appeared shortly after Don's head injury, and departed as the effects of Don's concussion receded. There was a rational explanation for his appearance, after all. Don supposed there was even a reasonable explanation for how he subconsciously knew a house was near – maybe he had caught a glimpse of it before the accident, or noticed it on the way in to the country club. And where there were houses, there were usually garden hoses… somehow, he had recalled this photo of Charlie with the hose, or maybe the day itself, the picture dredged from the depths of his memory.

One thing was sure; the photo had erased any doubts Don had concerning the strength of their relationship. Even in their darkest hour, there had been a connection on a very deep level, which apparently stretched all the way back to a childhood and a relationship that Don had always believed to be somehow deficient. Perhaps it _had_ been deficient – but not any longer. And there might have been a logical explanation for the appearance of the boy, but Don was certain that there was something deeper, and more meaningful, than mere logic behind the visions.

There was a yawn and the rustle of fabric against sofa cushions, then Charlie's voice came from the other room, sleepy sounding. "Hey, when did you get here?"

Don laid photo down carefully, almost reverently, stepped back through the dining room doorway and turned to face him. "A few minutes ago. Nice nap?"

Charlie grinned and flushed a little, and Don suspected that perhaps Amita had kept him up late the night before. He walked over to the sofa, and pulled up the same chair Amita had sat in the day before. Charlie was watching him a bit warily now, probably wondering why Don had selected that chair instead of slouching in the armchair like he usually did, why he was leaning forward like he was ready to talk. "What's up?" he asked. He kept his tone light, but Don could see a hint of worry in his eyes.

"Charlie," Don began, then paused. He tried again. "Charlie, we need to talk about the accident – we've been avoiding that since you've come home. I owe you an apology."

Charlie's face cleared, and he snorted and waved a hand. "Oh, that. I thought you were going to say something else. Apology for what? For saving my life?"

Don shook his head, with a pained expression. "Charlie, I was the one who put you in that situation, remember? I was driving."

Charlie looked at him earnestly and shook his head. "Don, you've got to be kidding – you're blaming yourself for that? That's crazy. It's a notoriously bad stretch of road, especially in the rain – I looked up the statistics on it. Considering the fact that it's out in the boondocks and doesn't get much traffic, it has a disproportionately high rate of accidents. The drainage is apparently terrible on that side of the road - in fact, that piece of road is on Glen Township's list of road improvement projects. Besides, I was the idiot who didn't put on my seatbelt. It wasn't your fault – I can't believe you even think that."

Don sighed. "Yeah, well, I do. You told me I was hydroplaning, that I was driving too fast -,"

"And you immediately started to slow down," Charlie interjected. "Look, you've got it off your chest now, although you didn't need to. Don't worry about it." His tone softened. "I know I said 'thank you' already, but you need to know I'll never forget that – what you did that night – you're amazing in a crisis, do you realize that? Going in after me the way you did, when you were hurt yourself, and the idea of the hose – that was brilliant."

Don flushed. For a moment he was tempted to tell him about the visions he saw that night, but all he said was, "I guess you've rubbed off on me, after all these years." He paused. He would tell him, someday – just not now. "What did you think I was going to talk about, anyway?"

The emotion faded from Charlie's face, and he looked a bit uncomfortable. "Oh, I don't know. I guess -," he paused, fidgeting. "I thought maybe you were going to tell me you didn't want to work with me anymore."

Don stared at him, gaping. "What?"

Charlie squirmed on the sofa seat, uncomfortably. "Don't get me wrong – I thought we did pretty well together on that case last week. It's just - you just seemed – kind of distant. Do you remember, right before I left for England, I asked you if you thought we would grow apart again?"

Don nodded. "I remember. Do you remember what I said?"

Charlie looked at him, and answered slowly. "Basically, that you didn't think so. I believed you then, but this week, well, the way you were acting, I guess I wasn't sure."

Don felt a little pang of regret shoot through him, but it was accompanied by a warm feeling. Charlie was just as worried about their relationship as he had been. "Buddy," he said softly, "there's no doubt in my mind – we've never been closer. Of course I want to keep working with you. If I seemed preoccupied, it was because I was afraid I'd screwed things up because of the accident."

A look of profound relief crossed Charlie's face, and he sighed and smiled ruefully. "Maybe if we ever talked to each other about anything but work, we would have figured that out earlier."

Don grinned, warmly. "You're right there. So, you go first."

Charlie stared at him blankly. "What?"

Don's grin deepened, half teasing, half serious. "Talk about something other than work."

Charlie was silent. Don hadn't really expected him to play, so he was a bit shocked when his brother said, "Have you guys talked about having kids?"

...

Talking about things close to the heart – probably for the first time in their lives – turned out to be easier, and infinitely more satisfying, than Don had imagined. The issue of kids was, as Don suspected, still not resolved, but Charlie said that Amita had told him that she definitely wanted children - she just wasn't sure when. After all, they had only been married six months, and it had been a hurried wedding followed by the Cambridge assignment. She had told Charlie that she just wanted to be a married couple for a while yet. They had both agreed to postpone a decision until she was ready to make one. Knowing them, Don was certain they would work it out. From there the talk wandered to weddings, baseball, and ideas for a bachelor party, in that order. They talked until Alan stuck his head out of the kitchen to say that lunch was ready.

After lunch, Charlie settled back on the sofa for another nap, and Alan came out to the dining room, and began shuffling through pictures. Don sidled up beside him, and pointed to the picture of Charlie holding the hose. "Can I have that one?"

Alan glanced up at him with a surprised smile, and then down at the picture. "That one? Sure, you can have it. Oh, I get it," he chuckled softly. "Blackmail, eh?"

Don grinned. "Something like that."

He gently picked up the picture to put it into his front shirt pocket, and as it flashed past his face, he stopped abruptly and stared at it. For just a moment, it had looked as though the boy in the picture had winked at him. That was ridiculous, Don knew, but as he gazed at the picture, it did seem that Charlie's dark eyes were alive – that he was staring straight out of the picture at him, grinning mischievously. Don grinned back at him, then gently tucked the photo in his shirt pocket, next to his heart.

...

The End

_A/N - Well, I have to say that as far as the boy was concerned, some of you hit it right on the head. I hope you enjoyed this - it was a short one for me, but one I just had to get out. I will be back soon in conjunction with FraidyCat under our joint name, Rabid Raccoons, with part 2 of Perception Deception. Many, many thanks for reading and commenting - you are the best!_


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